I don’t want to tell you anything. This
dream I’ve had of coming out of my
shell. Was my body always in here?
The brunt of it, I mean. I poke my
head out to peer around at the
places these legs have taken me.
I’ve always been drawn to windows,
occasionally coming to cognizance
having gotten lost staring out over
and upon the rooftops of the seedy
part of town, or searing into the
tiny garden behind the house
next door. There’s never anyone
there. Just that square splash of
color that’s filled with flowers and
vegetables, and if my eyesight
were better, or maybe I had a
pair of binoculars, I’m sure I
could find its imperfections,
create a profile of my
gardening neighbor who is
never home. As I am, though,
when I catch myself coming
back into focus, such colorful
jungles harboring sights the
likes of which I’ve never been,
these weary eyes have never
seen. Or else I’ve been
transported for however long,
(hours, sometimes?) to the
old pasture’s pond, a fishing
hole from my childhood, where
with rod and reel in hand and
sitting as quietly as I could back
then it seemed I never caught
a thing. All afternoon into the
evening, however, I’d be
squishing worms onto hooks,
or else piercing minnows just
below the spine. Then out the
line would go, with a cork that
barely bobbed. Even then I’d
get lost, my eyes not quite
doing their job, as my mind
wandered to anywhere but
there. What can I tell you?
That this has always been me.
Too lazy to astral project (I’d
mention the books I’d always
have on my person, no matter
where I was or wasn’t, more
often than not, were science
fiction), but nevertheless a
wanderer, a nomad from
way back. When given the
choice to live in the present
or drift away, exercising,
in essence, nothing but
my imagination....
But there were times—
